


Katy the Hussy

by honey_wheeler



Series: The Paper-Sellers Club [3]
Category: Baby-Sitters Club - Ann M. Martin, The Office (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-05
Updated: 2011-08-05
Packaged: 2017-10-22 05:58:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who needs paper selling when there are <i>boys</i> around?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Katy the Hussy

**Author's Note:**

> _The cast of characters:_  
>  **Pam Beesly** as Mary Anne Spier, shy doormat with a controlling father  
>  **Angela Martin** as Kristy Thomas, bossy leader and big-idea-haver  
>  **Kelly Kapoor** as Claudia Kishi, ethnic member and phone-owner  
>  **Katy** as Stacey McGill, fluffy-haired, boy-crazy diabetic  
>  **Karen Fillipelli** as Dawn Schafer, Connecticut girl and individualistic individual  
>  **Jim Halpert** as Logan Bruno, boy paper seller with a dreamy accent  
>  **Roy Anderson** as Sam Thomas, Angela’s older brother  
>  **Michael Scott** as Alan Grey, SMS pest-in-residence

“You’re late, Katy.”

Angela Martin gave me the stink eye as I tried to slip quietly into the room. Ugh. She is the bossiest, most infuriating person I know. She acts like just because we’re in the club, she _owns_ us. And I wasn’t even that late! The meeting only started five minutes ago, geez.

“For your information,” I said coldly, “I was on a delivery.” She narrowed her eyes and looked at me skeptically, like I was trying to sell her magic beans or tell her that gladiator sandals don’t make your ankles look fat.

“A likely story,” she sniffed.

“No, she was,” Pam interrupted, flipping through the pages of her notebook. “To your family, actually, since you were tied up at practice.”

“Let me see that,” Angela snapped. She ripped the notebook out of Pam’s hands and looked at it accusingly. “It says here your appointment was at 4:00. You should have been done an hour ago.” She tossed the notebook away and eyed me suspiciously. I stammered, tried to think of an excuse, but before I could she inhaled sharply, angry pink flags standing out on her cheeks.

“You were seducing my brother, weren’t you!” she cried.

“Seducing? No!” I said, trying for outrage. It was true, I hadn’t been seducing him. I had been waiting for him to come home from a Math Club meeting so I could _try_ to seduce him. That’s totally different.

“You were too seducing him, you dirty hooker!” She stood up from her director’s chair and lunged at me.

“Bring it, Holly Hobby,” I snarled, balling my hands into fists, but Pam and Karen caught Angela’s elbows and held her back.

But wait, before we get to the violence, you’re probably wondering what I’m talking about and who the heck these people are, right? Okay, I’ll start from the beginning. My name is Katy. Actually, my full name is Katerina, but no one calls me that except my grandmother. It’s so old-fashioned! Katy is much more sophisticated and cool. I’m way more of a Katy than a Katerina. Katerina is for, like, ice skaters and Pomeranians. Boys are four times more likely to be into a Katy than a Katerina. I should know, I’m a genius at math. That’s why I’m the treasurer of the PSC.

And what is the PSC? It’s a club Angela started to sell paper. I know, yawn, right? See, Angela’s allergic to fun and relaxation and being normal, so instead of shopping for clothes and going roller skating with boys like regular girls do, she decided to start a business: the Paper-Sellers Club. Her mom was having trouble buying paper, for some stupid reason. Like, I don’t know how hard it can be. Go to Staples and buy some damned paper, you know? But whatever, Angela’s mother is lazy or functionally retarded or something and she can’t manage to have paper in the house for Angela and her brothers to do their homework. So Angela got this bright idea to start a club to sell paper to _other_ functionally retarded parents (Scranton’s got a lot of those, believe you me). Then she made herself dictator- I’m sorry, I mean _president-for-life_.

Angela’s super proud of her lame little paper club idea. You should hear her go on and _on_ about it. Okay, fine, we do make a lot of money. And maybe it’s not _that_ lame of an idea. But paper! It’s so unglamorous. If my parents hadn’t cut off my clothing allowance at the beginning of the school year just when culottes were coming into fashion and all I had was last year’s stirrup pants, I would be out of here like a shot. Adios cardstock, sayonara letterhead. We meet three times a week from 5:30 to 6:00, which is about as long as I can stand being around Angela without punching her in the throat. I swear I’m not really a violent person. She just brings it out in me.

All of the club members are currently in 8th grade. Emotionally I’m a lot more mature than most 8th graders, though. I’d put myself at about a junior or senior level in high school. I relate so much better to boys that age, too. They’re a lot more sophisticated and grown up than the stupid boys at Scranton Middle School. Plus they can drive.

I’m thirteen, but I look a lot older than that. Like, my face and my body are very refined and mature. Other people spend hours and hundreds of dollars to get their hair as shiny and bouncy as mine is every day when I wake up. And my sense of style is definitely more grown-up than most of the other girls my age. I’m always up on the latest trends and I’m super good at mixing them for just the right amount of edge. It’s important to lead trends and not follow them. Today, for instance, I’m wearing riding pants, black leather riding boots, a smart white shirt, and a tiger print headband and earrings. To top the outfit off, I’m also carrying a leather whip. That’s what takes it over the edge from cool to _fierce_. I call it my lion tamer outfit and everyone agrees that it’s totally dibble. Oh, and dibble is a word my friends and I made up (well, _I_ made it up, but they conveniently forget that all the time). It means cool or fresh. I’m thinking of not using it anymore, though. It’s kind of played out. I mean, if Angela’s lame younger brother David Wallace is using it, it’s probably time for a new word.

Speaking of brothers, Angela’s got a load of them: two older brothers named Mark and Roy, and David Wallace, who’s younger. They all used to live right across the street from Kelly and Pam, but then her mom met this crazy rich guy at a Phish concert or something and moved Angela and all her brothers across town to this fancy mansion. I’ll admit, I’m a little jealous. She gets to live in a huge mansion with lots of marble and she could probably have any clothes she wanted. Instead she dresses like a chorus member in a high school production of _Oklahoma_ : high-necked blouses, corduroys, sensible shoes. I don’t think she’s ever left a button undone in her life. I really hate standing next to her. I probably should like it, since I can’t help but look even more fabulous when I’m next to Angela in one of her schoolmarm get-ups, but the mortification factor at being seen in her presence is too high. She hates being around me too, but that’s because she’s a total prude and she’s afraid that “tramp rubs off.” As far as I’m concerned, she can bite me. And maybe if she let a boy bite _her_ once in a while, she’d loosen up and stop being such a pain in my ass all the time.

She’s been even _more_ of a pain in my ass lately. Why, you ask? Because of Roy. He’s older, fifteen, and totally foxy. He has a beard and everything! I’m pretty sure he digs me and I _know_ I dig _him_ and Angela – being the complete opposite of anything fun – does not like that one bit. So she’s all on my case lately, all, _why were you talking to Roy, shouldn’t you be getting home, don’t touch him with your harlot hands!_ It’s getting pretty old. But Angela is clearly the price I have to pay to make some time with Roy.

There are other members in the club, too. Kelly Kapoor is our vice-president. She’s Indian-American and she’s gorgeous (I myself am more on the stunning side). Her hair is dark and shiny and she’s totally exotic-looking and has unbelievable skin, even though she scarfs Pringles and Ring-dings like a bulimic teenager in an after-school special. She also happens to be my best friend. She’s definitely the most similar to me out of all the club members. We are both way more sophisticated and trendy than the others. I’m not being conceited, I’m just being honest. Kelly isn’t _quite_ as stylish as I am, though. She leans more towards being creative than being chic and put-together (which is, naturally, what _I_ lean towards). She’s got the craziest clothes and she’s all about super coordinated outfits. Like, she showed up for school today wearing a navy blue western shirt with a crocheted pink vest that she made herself, pink cowboy boots and a matching Stetson, and wranglers with a lasso threaded through the belt loops. In one ear she had a cactus earring, in the other there was a coyote. The finishing touch was a sheriff’s badge pinned to her chest. Sure, she got a lot of boys asking her to put them in the pokey, but you have to admire her commitment to a theme. Actually, to be honest (and this is strictly on the down-low) sometimes her concept outfits can be a little childish. But she’s still loads more sophisticated than any of the other club members. This dumb town is a wasteland when it comes to style.

The other original club member is Pam Beesley. She’s Angela’s best friend, or so she claims. It seems like they hate each other, if you ask me. She’s the club secretary because she’s too nice to realize what a crap job it is and that the reason we all nominated her was because we didn’t want to do it ourselves (we told her it was because of her penmanship). Pam’s a little babyish. Her father used to be really controlling. He made her wear jumpers and braid her hair into pigtails and he’d have a heart attack if you even suggested things like slumber parties or boys or PG-13 movies. He’s loosened up, though, and now Pam’s graduated to clothes that are just boring instead of babyish: kilts, loafers, cable knit sweaters, all in colors like brown or oatmeal or plaid. She’s pretty short and her hair’s kind of frizzy. She could use some product, a gel or a good curl crème, maybe. I’d love to give her a makeover but every time I bring it up, she freaks and thinks I’m going to try to pierce her ears with a knitting needle like Frenchie did to Sandy in _Grease_ and she won’t let me near her.

Despite all that, little Pam is the only one of us paper sellers to have a steady boyfriend. His name is Jim Halpert and boy, he is _dreamy_. He’s tall and funny and he’s from Massachusetts and has this hot accent. He could have any girl in the school, but he chose Pam. I personally don’t get it. I mean, I like Pam and all, she’s super sweet and nice and everything. But she’s not sophisticated like me, or creative like Kelly, or a natural leader like Angela, or even a novelty like Karen. I don’t think she even uses tongue when she kisses. But Jim’s head over heels for her anyway. It would at least make sense if she put out, but I’m pretty sure she doesn’t. In fact, I sometimes wonder if Pam still thinks babies are brought by the stork.

Karen Fillipelli joined the club not long after we formed it. She’s Pam’s other best friend, and that I can actually buy, since they’re both decent in a low-key, non-trendy way. She’s also the club’s alternate officer, which technically means she fills in for anyone who’s absent, but really means that we were out of positions by the time she came along. She moved here from Stamford and she still talks about Connecticut all the time. It’s kind of annoying. What’s so great about Connecticut? Nothing, that’s what. It drives me nuts when she waxes poetic about the fall foliage (hello, there are trees in Pennsylvania, too). Angela can’t stand it either, which makes it the only thing we’ve ever agreed on.

Anyway, she’s some sort of a hippie health freak. She never cuts her hair and she eats tofu and bean sprouts and wears pants all the time. Other than that, Karen’s okay. I mean, she’s not a _complete_ loser like Angela. She dresses okay and has a decent sense of style. But we don’t have much in common. Like, she won’t wear make-up because it’s tested on animals. I’m sorry, but that is insane. She can’t even put on a little mascara or lip gloss? And believe you me, a little lip gloss wouldn’t hurt if she doesn’t want people to get the wrong impression, what with those pants she’s always wearing. But at least with Karen around I’m not the only one stuck with pretzels and plain popcorn at club meetings while the others are, like, snarfing down Twinkies a la mode or whatever it is they’re always cramming into their mouths.

Oh, I guess I forgot to mention that I have diabetes. It means I can’t have any sweets or anything or I could probably die. Seriously. My doctor always tells me I’m too dramatic about it and that I’d be fine if I had an M&M but what does he know? I have to give myself insulin shots and check my blood sugar all the time. It’s a pretty big deal. I don’t know any other kids my age who have to deal with needles and blood so much. But I’ve been doing it so long that I’m a pro. It’s just another way I’m more mature than your average 8th grader, I guess. It does kind of suck, though, since my friends are a bunch of insensitive pigs. For instance, Kelly had been passing around a little plastic bucket full of fudge sauce when I walked in and they were all taking turns dunking Snickers bars into it or drinking it with a straw (minus Karen, of course, who was nibbling daintily on a plain saltine). Nobody thinks about _me_ and my needles and my blood sugar when they’re microwaving their bucket of chocolate, do they? No. Like I said, insensitive pigs.

And speaking of, insensitive pig #1 was still trying to tackle me. Karen and Pam wrestled Angela back into her director’s chair. Her visor had gotten knocked askew and was hanging over one eye. It was all I could do not to laugh at her.

“Come on, you guys, that’s enough. Remember what we agreed on?” Pam demanded impatiently. She looked at me and Angela in turn. Angela crossed her arms sulkily. I averted my eyes and stared at a vague point on the carpet. Pam sure has a knack for making people feel guilty.

“No bloodshed during meetings,” Angela and I grudgingly mumbled in unison.

“That’s right,” Pam answered. “So sit down and let’s get on with it.” She nodded with finality and waited until I sat down on the bed and Karen handed Angela her clipboard from the floor before she sat down herself. Kelly, who had been lolling on her bed filing her nails during the whole thing, caught my eye and mimed shooting herself in the head so the others couldn’t see. I giggled and Angela glared at me and didn’t stop for the rest of the meeting. By the time we were almost through, I was so antsy to get out of there I couldn’t even sit still.

“Geez, Katy, you’re turning this into one of those magic fingers beds at cheap motels,” Kelly whispered when my fidgeting vibrated one of her Nancy Drew books over the edge of the bed and onto the floor. I shrugged and looked at the clock. All we had left was…

“New business?” Angela asked. Pam nodded and Angela gestured for her to continue.

“Some of our regular clients just moved out of town-” Pam started.

“Who moved?” Kelly demanded.

“The Wernhams,” Pam said, looking at her notebook. “And the Hoggs. Oh, and Mr. Keenan. He just moved to England.”

“Ooh, England!” Kelly squealed. “I wonder if he’ll meet Prince William! He is soooo cute.”

“Not anymore now that he’s looking like Charles,” I said dismissively. “Harry’s the cute one now.”

“Isn’t it funny,” Kelly mused, nodding, “how cuteness is such a transitory state? You know, like, butterflies and how they metamorphose from gross larvae to grosser pupae and enter this ephemeral state of beauty before they get splattered by a windshield?” She chewed on the end of her pencil thoughtfully.

We all stared at Kelly. Angela’s mouth had dropped open, no doubt at hearing Kelly use words with more than three syllables. Pam cleared her throat.

“So yeah,” she said in the awkward silence. “We need to replace a few customers. Do you guys have any new prospects?”

“Actually, yes,” Angela said. “I have a new client. Sasha Flenderson’s father was at practice today and he mentioned needing some letterhead for his home business.” Pam made a sympathetic clucking noise.

“My dad was telling me about that,” she said.

“Why does your dad know anything about Mr. Flenderson’s paper supply?” Karen asked, confused.

“They’re in a single dad support group together. I guess Mrs. Flenderson was his business partner and she ordered all the supplies. But then she ran away to Orlando with their gardener.”

“Ooh,” Kelly and Karen chorused, wincing in sympathy. Angela cleared her throat impatiently.

“I told him someone would come by tomorrow at 3:00pm,” she said. Pam looked down and consulted her schedule.

“Katy’s free,” she said. I groaned.

“Do I have to?” I whined. I hated sales calls. Especially with responsible single dads. You give me a college student or a young businessman, he’s putty in my hands. But single dads? Forget it. I’d be lucky to upgrade him to resume paper. Angela fixed me with a glare.

“As a charter member of the PSC, it is your duty to-”

“Fine, fine!” I interrupted her. If you don’t shut her up fast, she can blab for hours about duty and obligation and la la whatever. She’d be great at Army recruitment. “I’ll go,” I sighed. Angela nodded smugly.

“Tomorrow at 3:00pm,” she repeated.

*****

I didn’t bother with a cute outfit the next day. I just wore the gaucho pants and white blouse I’d worn to school that day, threw on a pair of flip-flops, and left my Spanish bullfighter cap and bolero jacket at home. No point in making an effort, after all, not with a responsible single dad. But boy did I regret it when I got to Mr. Flenderson’s house.

“You must be Katy,” he said when the door opened after I rang the bell. I had somehow lost my voice and I could only stare at him. He wasn’t my type, really. First off, he was _old_. And he had kind of a hangdog look around him, like a golden retriever that had gotten caught trying to steal food off the kitchen table. But still, there was something strangely compelling about him. I suddenly felt the same way I had in sixth grade when I had a crush on my teacher, Mr. Daniels, and I would do things like mess up my homework and ride my bike on campus instead of walking it, just to get him to pay attention to me.

I followed him mutely into the house. It was tidy and cozy, with books piled everywhere and framed pictures of his daughter on the walls. He was wearing a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and his arms looked strong and solid. And kind of hairy, to be honest, which I wouldn’t have expected I’d like so much. I guess it’s just a mark of my maturity, now that I think about it.

We sat down on his couch and I launched into my pitch, flipping open our product binder. He nodded thoughtfully, asked me questions. When he leaned over to point at one of our envelope options, his shoulder bumped against mine and I could barely breathe.

“Um, yes,” I said breathlessly. “That’s, um, one of our most popular items. I’m sure you’ll be very pleased with it.” He looked down at me and grinned, his face all scrunched up in the cutest way ever. I could have _died_.

“Daddy,” came a little voice from the hallway. He looked up immediately, his grin becoming even cuter, if such a thing was possible.

“Hey, baby, how long have you been awake?” He pushed off the couch and went to scoop his sleepy-looking daughter up against his chest. She rubbed at her eyes with the back of one hand and looked at me curiously. I closed the binder and stood up, smiling in what I hoped was a friendly way at her. I didn’t usually spend much time with kids. They’re very sticky, in my experience, and I have a lot of dry-clean-only clothes.

“Sasha,” he said, jouncing her a little on his chest. “This is Katy. Katy, Sasha.”

“Hello, Katy,” she said, regarding me solemnly. She was pretty cute for rugrat.

“Hi Sasha!” I said brightly. “What happened to your arm?” She immediately stuck her cast-encased arm out for my inspection.

“It breaked,” she informed me. “Andy breaked it.” I winced sympathetically, and not just at her grammar.

“Yeah, Andy can be a little clumsy, huh?” I gently took her cast in my hand and examined it. “You don’t have any signatures!” I exclaimed. “You have to have people write on your cast, that’s the best part.” With a glance at her father, I pulled out my pen and signed my name on her cast, drawing a little patch of flowers and a smiling sun.

“There,” I said, underlining my name with a flourish. “Now you have your first signature.” She held the cast up to her face and inspected it carefully. It obviously passed muster, because she lowered it and grinned at me.

“Thank you, Katy!” she said, then wiggled in her father’s arms to be put down. We watched her scramble into the kitchen and Mr. Flenderson smiled at me too. He put one solid hand on my shoulder and gave it an appreciative squeeze.

“Thanks, Katy,” he said as he saw me to the door. “It was a pleasure doing business with you. Come back sometime and play with Sasha if you’d like!”

“Sure!” I said, beaming at him. I was pretty sure that when he said _play with Sasha_ he meant _be my lady love_ and I could barely contain myself. I’d won him over! And I wasn’t even wearing my cutest outfit! I practically floated home.

*****

I had another delivery at the Martin’s the next day while Angela was at practice. How her mother ran out of wide-rule notebook paper in the space of two days, I have no idea. This time Roy wasn’t at Math Club, though. He got home just as I was finishing up. My heart sank when I saw him. This was bound to be awkward.

“Hey, Katy,” he said, leaning against the doorjamb and obviously trying to look cool. “’Sup?” He was wearing a faded Iron Maiden t-shirt and ratty jeans. Just last week I would have found that totally cool in a rebellious sort of way, but now that I’d met Mr. Flenderson...well, Roy didn’t seem quite so mature after all.

“Hi, Roy,” I said, smiling slightly at him. It wasn’t his fault he didn’t measure up to a real man, after all.

“Hey, you wanna come up to my room?” he asked me, all eager like a puppy. “I’ve got this great new CD you should totally listen to.”

“Um, sure,” I told him. I wasn’t sure what else to say. Usually I’m not in their house when I crush their hearts by rejecting them. It seemed impolite. His room was sloppy and messy, exactly how you’d imagine a teenage boy’s room would look. Clothes were strewn over the lamp shade and over the blades of the ceiling fan. I thought I saw a banana peel lurking under the bed. Oh, dis _gust_. Roy jumped over a pile of shoes and car magazines to jab at a button on the stereo. Immediately the sounds of electric guitar flooded the room.

“Isn’t that awesome?” Roy asked me, playing air-guitar and sticking out his tongue. I cringed. How had I not noticed how juvenile he was before? I leaned over him to stop the song. He paused, mid-air-guitar, and looked at me hopefully.

“Um, Roy, I gotta go, okay? I have to get home.”

“Oh, sure,” he nodded. “I’ll walk you.” I thought about protesting, but it was a nice gesture and I didn’t want to be mean. Then it occurred to me, I could walk with him by Mr. Flenderson’s house! He would probably be so jealous to see me with an older boy. I beamed at Roy, part of me being pleased when he noticeably gulped even if I wasn’t interested in him anymore.

“I would like that, Roy,” I said and linked my arm with his.

*****

I trudged listlessly to my locker after school the next day. Walking by with Roy hadn’t made Mr. Flenderson jealous at _all_. He’d only waved from the front step when I called to him, hugging Roy’s arm possessively to my side. It made for a very awkward scene, though, when Roy dropped me off and leaned in for a kiss on my front doorstep. I had to cough and pretend I had tuberculosis to fend him off.

It also hadn’t worked when I tried it again later in the afternoon with Hunter, the hottest boy in the seventh grade. Sure, Hunter was younger, but hotness knows no age, and I only needed him to make Mr. Flenderson seethe with jealous rage – he wasn’t a serious prospect or anything. Plus Hunter’s in a band, which adds automatic cool points. But it didn’t work any better than it had with Roy. And the whole doorstep scene was replayed, only that time it was even more awkward and uncomfortable. The only thing I accomplished through the whole disaster was letting Hunter know in no uncertain terms that if he didn’t remove his hand from my chest immediately, he’d be wearing slip-on shoes and having his mother cut his food for him.

I was running out of ideas to get Mr. Flenderson to notice me. I had thought I’d won him over by being so nice to Sasha before, but now it seemed like I hadn’t even made an impression. I’d never felt this doubtful about my charms before and I didn’t like it one bit. It made me grumpy, and I’d been snapping at everyone. Yesterday at our club meeting, I’d even made poor Pam cry when I told the other girls about my crush on Mr. Flenderson (though, to be honest, it’s not that hard to do, since even learning that the cafeteria is out of pudding pops at lunch can make Pam cry). Angela had yelled at me about leading her brother on, which, hello, you didn’t want me to date him before, and now you’re yelling at me for _not_ dating him? Make up your mind, lady. But anyway, Angela had yelled, and I’d yelled right back. When Pam tried to intervene I told her to go home and play with her dolls. It wasn’t very nice of me, I’ll admit. I wanted to apologize today but she’d avoided me and wouldn’t even look up when I said hi to her in the halls. So I was pretty depressed when I went to my locker after school to get my things.

“Hiya, Katy!” Ugh. I knew that voice. I turned reluctantly and there he was, leaning against the locker next to mine. Michael Scott, Scranton Middle School’s biggest pest, bane of my existence. The few times Michael wasn’t prank calling the members of the PSC or snapping our bra straps (well, _my_ bra straps, since I’m the only one of us papersellers who can actually fill one out, and very nicely too, thank you very much) he was panting at me around my locker and trying to get me to watch one of his stupid magic tricks.

“Hi Michael,” I sighed. I knew from experience that ignoring him didn’t make him go away.

“Hiya, Katy!” he said again. I could feel a headache forming behind my eyes. It’d been a long day.

“Yes, we’ve established the ‘hi’ part,” I told him, unzipping my backpack and throwing my books in. “Was there something you wanted?”

“Just to tell you how pretty you are,” Michael said eagerly. When I rolled my eyes, he added, “And to show you this new magic trick!” He pulled a pack of cards out of his pocket.

“I’m not playing 52 card pick up, Michael,” I told him witheringly. He blushed crimson and tried to pretend that wasn’t exactly what he was going to do.

“Oh, I wasn’t…it’s another…okay, what about these?” He hastily stuffed the cards into his pocket and pulled out some interlocking metal rings. Geez, did he have a magic shop in his pockets? If he ever pulls a rabbit out of there, I’m definitely telling the principal.

“So, um,” he said when I showed no interest in his magic rings. “I, uh…I heard you went out with Hunter yesterday.” I whipped my head around to stare at him.

“How’d you hear that?” I asked sharply.

“Gym class,” he said. “He told everybody. He said you were easy. And I was thinking. I’m a lot more fun than Hunter, you know? And I thought maybe…that maybe you and I…” He trailed off and looked at me hopefully. Oh _god_. This couldn’t be going anywhere good.

“Hey, Michael,” Karen said as she walked up behind us. Michael jumped a mile. For some reason he’s scared of Karen. If any boy were scared of me, I would feel bad and then wear lots of pink and be super sweet so he wouldn’t be scared anymore. But I think Karen kind of likes it. She draped one arm over my shoulder and stared unflinchingly at Michael.

“Don’t you have some other girl to torment? Katy’s busy.” She sounded all tough, like a biker chick or an inmate in a prison movie, the kind Pam’s dad won’t let her watch. Michael’s face blanched and his hands fluttered around nervously, like he was a bird who had just noticed a cat lurking below his cage.

“Uh, yeah,” he said. “Yeah, yeah, I do. Uh, bye Katy.” He glanced at me longingly and disappeared so fast he just about left a Michael-shaped cloud of dust behind him. I heaved a huge sigh of relief.

“Thanks, Karen,” I said.

“No problem,” she answered, moving to lean against the locker next to mine. “It’s fun scaring him off, actually.” I giggled and went back to putting my stuff in my backpack. Karen could be pretty cool when she wasn’t being all annoying about animal rights or hemp or whatever it was she was always protesting about.

“Hey, so I got some inside information for you,” she told me.

“Hmm?” I said distractedly. I had just remembered what Michael had said about Hunter and me being easy. I tried to tell myself to ignore it, that Michael Scott was hardly an accurate gauge of the social climate at SMS, but I had a sinking feeling in my stomach.

“It’s about Mr. Flenderson,” she said, her voice casual. My head shot up and she laughed. “Thought that would get your attention. I happen to know that he is desperate for a babysitter on Friday night.”

“Really?” I breathed. She nodded.

“His regular one bailed on him and he’d probably be super grateful if someone else could fill in. He told me so when I called to confirm his order last night.” She smiled then and starting walking towards the hallway. “I already told him you’d do it, so you better practice playing Candyland!”

“Okay! And thanks!” I called after her. When she’d disappeared around the corner, I turned back to my locker and smiled. Who cared what middle school boys thought? Then I realized how much work I had to do and I panicked, throwing my books into my bag and zipping it up. I had to work on my hair, my clothes, my make-up, conversation starters…plus I had to figure out what babysitters _do_.

Toby Flenderson wouldn’t know what hit him.

*****

Turns out baby-sitting was a lot harder than I thought it would be. Mr. Flenderson hadn’t been gone an hour before I’d set the toaster on fire, dropped one of Sasha’s toys down the garbage disposal, and accidentally let Sasha lock herself in the closet.

“Katyyyyy!” she cried, her voice growing more and more panicked. “Katy, it’s dark in here! I wanna come out now!”

“I’m trying, Sasha, I’m trying!” I jiggled at the handle furiously. “I can’t get it open!” Nothing I did worked, though. So I did the only thing I could think to do.

“Martin residence,” Roy said when he picked up the phone.

“Roy! Roy, it’s me, Katy. Is Angela there?” I clutched the phone desperately and crossed my fingers. It would be the first and probably last time that I’d be desperate to talk to Angela.

“Nah, she’s out. What’s wrong?”

“Oh, no!” I moaned. “She’s the only person I know who babysits! Sasha Flenderson is stuck in a closet and I don’t know what to do!”

“Hey, Katy. Katy! Calm down.” Roy’s voice was forceful and I got a hold of myself a little. I took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said. “I’ve done some babysitting for David Wallace too, remember? I’ll be right over.”

“Okay,” I said meekly, but he’d already hung up and my only answer was a dial tone.

*****

“Thank god you’re here!” I cried as I threw open the door and flung my arms around his neck. He rubbed my back comfortingly and maneuvered both of us inside, shutting the door behind him.

“Okay, okay,” he said, gripping my arms and holding me away from him. “Where’s Sasha?” he asked. I led him to the closet, Sasha sniffling and hiccupping inside.

“Ah, this is no problem,” he said. He dropped my hand and reached for his wallet. “The key to every lock,” he smirked, holding up his Scranton High School ID card. We knelt in front of the door and he set to work, sliding it between the door and the jamb and wiggling it, a look of concentration on his face. So help me, I found it ridiculously hot. What can I say, I’m a sucker for boys being weirdly competent. Sure enough, there was a click and he swung the door to reveal Sasha, her cheeks streaked with tears, clutching a windbreaker like it was a security blanket. With a wail, she launched herself at me. I hugged her tight, glad I hadn’t worn any delicate fabrics.

“Thanks, Roy,” I said, looking at him gratefully over her head. “You’re totally the best.” He blushed and ducked his head.

“All in a day’s work,” he muttered, scrubbing at the back of his neck with his hand.

*****

Sasha was peacefully in bed by the time Mr. Flenderson got home. He walked in the door with some dark-haired lady who looked _way_ younger than him. Amazingly enough, I didn’t feel jealous at all. In fact, I wasn’t sure exactly what I saw in Mr. Flenderson in the first place. Maybe the fact that Roy and I had camped out on the couch watching TV and holding hands the whole night had something to do with that…

Later, when Roy had walked me home and we were standing on the sidewalk in front of my house, I tried to give him half of the babysitting money.

“You earned it,” I said, holding out a handful of bills. “I really owe you. I don’t know what I would have done, if…” I trailed off. He shook his head and folded my hand over the money. We stood awkwardly for a moment, heads down, feet shuffling nervously. Roy stuck his hands deep in his pockets, the fabric tenting out over his knuckles, and rocked on his heels.

“You keep it,” he said finally. “You can buy me popcorn when you and I go to the movies together this weekend.” He peeked up at me questioningly. When his words sank in, I grinned and nodded.

“Deal,” I said. Then I frowned, remembering what Michael had said. I gulped. “Are…are you sure you want to go out with me?” I asked. “I…I guess some boys at school are talking about me. About…how I’m easy or something.” I shrugged and tried to pretend I didn’t care, but my throat closed up a little and I know my voice sounded totally weird. I studied my shoes, not sure I wanted to hear his answer. But then I felt his hand on my chin, forcing me to look at him.

“Katy?” he said. “I wouldn’t care if your name was on bathroom walls from here to Pittsburgh, I would still want to go out with you.” He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and I was flooded with relief. I was so happy, in fact, that I leaned forward and kissed him, right on the lips. Angela would say that making the first move was the fastest way to get a reputation, but I figured that I already had one so I had nothing to lose.

My hand came up to his cheek and I rubbed my knuckles across his beard. It was softer than I expected. He made this rumbling noise in the back of his throat that made my stomach feel funny. I pulled back, flustered. He was grinning like his face would break. I gave him one last little kiss and turned to go inside.

“Goodnight, Roy!” I called over my shoulder.

“Goodnight, Katy,” he called back. “Sweet dreams!”

He was still there, standing on the sidewalk when I ran up to my room and looked out the window. I flopped down on the bed and allowed myself a squeal of delight. Looks like Pam’s not the only PSC member with a boyfriend!


End file.
